CHAPTER 1: THE COSMIC KICK IN THE PANTS
The last thing Adam Stiels remembered was the distinct, utterly unglamorous squeal of tires, followed by a sound that could only be described as the universe deciding his personal playlist needed a sudden, jarring skip. One moment, he was meticulously debating the merits of a triple-decker grilled cheese versus a classic Reuben, the next, the world had decided to rearrange itself into a rather unflattering abstract art piece, with him as the central, rapidly flattening canvas. It wasn't a heroic death. No, there was no saving a bus full of orphans, no defusing a bomb with seconds to spare, just a distracted driver and a particularly aggressive crosswalk. Typical. Even in death, Adam couldn't escape the mundane.
Then came the void. Not the scary, existential dread kind of void, more like the kind of void you get when your internet goes out mid-Netflix binge. Annoying, but ultimately temporary. He floated, or rather, existed, in a state of profound nothingness, a sensation akin to being the last chip in a bag, utterly alone and vaguely stale. He tried to think, to panic, to at least make a witty remark about the afterlife's décor, but his brain felt like a disconnected hard drive.
Suddenly, a voice, or rather, a presence that resonated directly in his non-existent skull, boomed. It wasn't a voice with a pitch or tone, more like the collective hum of a million forgotten libraries, all whispering ancient secrets at once.
["ADAM STIELS. YOUR EXISTENCE HAS CONCLUDED."]
Adam, or what was left of Adam, tried to roll his eyes. 'Well, no shit, Sherlock. I kind of gathered that when the pavement decided to give me a high-five with the force of a small asteroid. What gave it away? The distinct lack of a pulse, or the sudden urge to re-evaluate my life choices, specifically the one about not looking both ways?'
["YOUR DEATH WAS… UNFORESEEN. A MINOR GLITCH IN THE COSMIC TAPESTRY. A SINGLE THREAD SNAPPED PREMATURELY."]
'A glitch? A thread? So, I'm just a loose stitch in the grand cosmic quilt? Great. Does this mean I get a refund on my life subscription? Because honestly, the ending was a bit abrupt, and the customer service has been non-existent until now.'
["THE BALANCE MUST BE MAINTAINED. A LIFE TAKEN UNJUSTLY REQUIRES RECTIFICATION. YOU ARE OFFERED A CHOICE."]
Adam felt a flicker of something. Hope? Curiosity? Or just the sheer, unadulterated shock of being offered a cosmic do-over. 'A choice? Oh, this is where I get to pick between being a ghost haunting my ex's new boyfriend or a sentient toaster, isn't it? Because if it's the latter, I'm going to need some serious upgrades. Self-cleaning, at least.'
["YOU MAY BE REBORN. IN A REALITY OF YOUR CHOOSING. WITH CERTAIN… ENHANCEMENTS. TO ENSURE YOUR SURVIVAL AND TO PROVIDE… ENTERTAINMENT."]
Entertainment? Adam's non-existent eyebrows raised. 'Oh, so I'm the cosmic reality TV show? Great. Is there a live studio audience? Because I'm going to need a good monologue. Maybe some dramatic lighting. And can I get a wardrobe change? This ethereal nothingness is doing nothing for my complexion.'
["STATE YOUR PREFERENCE."]
This was it. The moment of truth. Adam's mind, which had previously been a chaotic mess of pop culture trivia and existential dread, suddenly cleared with laser focus. A reality of his choosing. The possibilities were endless. He could be a wizard in Middle-earth, a Jedi in a galaxy far, far away, or even, dare he dream, a background character in a particularly well-written sitcom. But one universe, one specific corner of the multiverse, had always held a special, chaotic place in his heart.
'Alright, cosmic overlord, listen up. I've seen things. I've binged things. I've spent an unhealthy amount of my previous, tragically short life dissecting the narrative inconsistencies of a certain shared superhero universe. So, if I'm getting a do-over, if I'm getting a chance to be a chaotic variable, then there's only one place for me.'
He projected his thoughts, a surge of pure, unadulterated fanboy energy. 'The Arrowverse. Specifically, the Legends of Tomorrow. I want in on that Waverider action. I want to see Rip Hunter's perpetually furrowed brow up close. I want to witness Mick Rory's glorious disdain for everything not involving fire or beer. And I want to see if Sara Lance is as effortlessly cool in person as she is on screen.'
["A FASCINATING CHOICE. THE ARROWVERSE. A REALITY RIFE WITH ANOMALIES. AND LEGENDS OF TOMORROW… A CONVERGENCE POINT OF UNFORESEEN VARIABLES. YOUR DESIRE FOR CHAOS IS NOTED."]
'Oh, I'm practically a walking, talking anomaly. You haven't seen chaos until you've seen me try to assemble IKEA furniture. This is going to be great. Now, about those "enhancements" you mentioned? Because if I'm going to be dealing with time-traveling assassins and immortal despots, I'm going to need more than just my winning personality and encyclopedic knowledge of obscure comic book lore.'
["YOU SHALL BE GRANTED THREE PRIMARY ABILITIES. REGENERATIVE HEALING, AKIN TO THE MUTANT DESIGNATED 'DEADPOOL' IN YOUR PREVIOUS REALITY. TELEKINESIS, CAPABLE OF MANIPULATING OBJECTS WITH MERE THOUGHT. AND MENTAL MANIPULATION, OR HYPNOSIS, REQUIRING EYE CONTACT AND VERBAL SUGGESTION."]
Adam felt a jolt, a spark of something akin to actual, physical excitement. 'Wait, seriously? Deadpool-level regeneration? So I can get shot, stabbed, blown up, and just… walk it off? That's amazing! Think of the pranks! The dramatic entrances! The sheer, unadulterated recklessness I can now employ! And telekinesis? Finally, I can reach the remote without moving. This is truly the golden age. Hypnosis… oh, Mick Rory, you have no idea what's coming.'
["BE WARNED. THESE POWERS WILL MANIFEST GRADUALLY, REQUIRING MASTERY. RECKLESSNESS HAS CONSEQUENCES, EVEN FOR THE REGENERATIVE. AND THE TIMELINE… IT IS A DELICATE THING. YOUR INTERFERENCE WILL CREATE RIPPLES. YOU ARE THE ANOMALY."]
'Ripples? Honey, I'm aiming for tidal waves. And "the Anomaly"? I like it. Has a nice ring to it. Beats "Adam Stiels, the guy who got flattened by a Ford Focus." So, when do I start? Do I get a cool origin story montage? Because I've always wanted one of those. Maybe some dramatic lightning.'
["THE REBIRTH IS IMMINENT. YOU WILL WAKEN AT A CRUCIAL JUNCTURE. RIP HUNTER WILL FIND YOU. PREPARE YOURSELF, ANOMALY. THE WAVERIDER AWAITS."]
The presence began to recede, the hum fading into a distant echo. Adam felt a strange pulling sensation, like being stretched thin across the fabric of reality. He tried to get one last question in. 'Wait, what about my memories? Do I keep them? Because knowing the future would be super helpful, or super annoying, depending on the plot armor situation!'
But the void was already dissolving, replaced by a kaleidoscope of blinding light and a cacophony of sounds. He felt a dizzying lurch, like a roller coaster dropping from a hundred feet, and then… darkness. A different kind of darkness. One that smelled faintly of stale popcorn and ozone.
The first sensation was pain. Not the crushing, instant kind of pain from the car, but a dull, throbbing ache in his head, like a particularly aggressive hangover had decided to take up permanent residence behind his eyeballs. Then came the cold, hard floor beneath him, smelling faintly of dust and something metallic. His eyes fluttered open, struggling against the gloom.
He was in what looked like… an alleyway? Or maybe a very neglected loading dock. Concrete walls, graffiti, overflowing dumpsters. Classy. He pushed himself up, groaning. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been run over by a very slow, very heavy truck. He patted himself down, checking for any obvious broken bits. Nothing. Just a general sense of having been used as a human punching bag.
He looked down at his hands. They were… his hands. Same slightly too-long fingers, same faint scar on his left thumb from a childhood encounter with a particularly aggressive stapler. He flexed them, then noticed something odd. A small cut on his palm, probably from pushing himself up, was… shrinking. The skin was knitting together, the red line fading, disappearing entirely within seconds.
'Holy crap. It's real. The regeneration. I'm not dreaming. Or hallucinating. Unless this is a really elaborate, pain-filled coma dream, which would be just my luck.'
He stood up, wobbling slightly. His clothes were different. Not the t-shirt and jeans he'd been wearing before his untimely demise, but a simple, dark grey hoodie and a pair of well-worn black jeans. Practical. Unassuming. Definitely not superhero chic, but he wasn't complaining. At least he wasn't naked. That would have been awkward.
He took a tentative step, then another. His head still throbbed, but the pain was already receding, a faint echo rather than a blaring siren. He looked around. The alley was narrow, leading out onto a street that looked… old. Really old. Not just "vintage" old, but "hasn't seen a decent sidewalk in centuries" old. Gas lamps flickered, horse-drawn carriages clattered by, and the few motor vehicles looked like they'd escaped from a museum.
'Okay, so definitely not modern-day. Which means… what year is it? Please don't be the 1800s. I don't think my sarcasm translates well to Victorian sensibilities. And I'm pretty sure they didn't have Wi-Fi.'
He spotted a newspaper stand. He squinted, trying to make out the headline. "GREAT EXHIBITION OPENS IN LONDON!" Below it, a date: "May 1, 1851."
'London. 1851. Oh, you've got to be kidding me. This is Rip Hunter's specialty, isn't it? Victorian England. The prime hunting ground for time-traveling shenanigans. Okay, Anomaly, deep breaths. You're in the past. You're in the Arrowverse. And Rip Hunter is supposed to find you. The question is, how does a rogue time master find a newly minted, slightly disoriented meta-human in a bustling 19th-century city?'
He decided to walk, to get his bearings, to maybe find a decent cup of tea that didn't taste like old socks. As he navigated the crowded, bustling streets, he kept his senses on high alert. He was looking for anything out of place. A glowing blue portal, a man in a ridiculously long coat, a giant spaceship disguised as a building. You know, the usual.
He passed a street performer, a man juggling apples with surprising dexterity. Adam watched for a moment, admiring the skill, when one of the apples slipped, arcing towards a small child. Without thinking, Adam extended his hand, a strange tingling sensation running up his arm. The apple, mid-air, suddenly stopped. It hung there, suspended, for a beat, then gently floated down into the child's outstretched hands.
The child looked at the apple, then up at Adam, a look of wide-eyed wonder on their face. The juggler, however, had paused his act, staring at the floating apple with a mixture of confusion and awe.
Adam quickly dropped his hand, trying to look nonchalant. 'Oh, just a little… air current. You know, London wind. Very… precise. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. Unless you want to see me accidentally levitate a horse and carriage, because that's probably next on the agenda.'
He hurried away, a grin spreading across his face. Telekinesis. Check. Basic, uncontrolled, and prone to public displays, but definitely there. This was going to be fun. Or terrifying. Probably both.
He wandered for what felt like hours, the city a dizzying blur of unfamiliar sights and sounds. He was hungry now, a gnawing emptiness in his stomach that even the regeneration couldn't fix. He needed food. And a plan. Or at least, a highly sarcastic internal monologue about the lack of decent fast food in the 19th century.
He found himself in a quieter part of town, a narrow street lined with brick buildings. He was about to turn a corner when he heard voices. Low, urgent, and distinctly out of place.
"Are you certain this is the correct temporal signature, Gideon?" a British accent, crisp and authoritative, asked.
"Affirmative, Captain Hunter. The anomaly's energy signature is fluctuating wildly, but it is undeniably present at this location." A female, synthesized voice replied.
Adam froze. Rip Hunter. Gideon. This was it. He ducked behind a stack of empty crates, peering out cautiously.
Across the street, a man in a long, brown leather coat stood, looking around with an air of weary determination. His face was etched with a permanent frown, and his eyes scanned the street with an intensity that suggested he was perpetually on the verge of either saving the timeline or needing a very strong cup of tea. It was him. Rip Hunter. And standing next to him, looking equally out of place in her sleek, modern combat gear, was a blonde woman with an aura of deadly grace. Sara Lance.
'Oh, my God. It's them. They're real. And Sara Lance is even cooler in person. Okay, Adam, play it cool. Don't fanboy. Don't quote the show. Just… be yourself. A sarcastic, slightly unhinged version of yourself.'
Rip sighed, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. "This is highly irregular. A new meta-human, appearing out of nowhere, with a temporal signature that defies all known parameters. And the energy spikes… they're like a toddler with a sugar rush in a china shop."
Adam winced. 'Hey! I heard that! And for your information, Captain Grumpy, I'm a highly sophisticated toddler with a sugar rush. There's a difference.'
Sara, ever practical, spoke up. "So, how do we find them? Do we just yell 'Hey, random super-powered individual, come join our dysfunctional time-traveling circus'?"
Rip rubbed his temples. "Ideally, we would approach with caution. Observe. Assess. But Gideon's readings are becoming increasingly erratic. Whatever this anomaly is, it's attracting attention."
Just then, a commotion erupted further down the street. A group of rough-looking men, clearly not fans of polite society, were harassing a street vendor, demanding money. The vendor, a frail old woman, trembled, clutching her meager earnings.
Adam didn't think. He just reacted. This was his chance. A dramatic entrance. A heroic moment. And maybe, just maybe, a way to impress the captain of his new, chaotic family.
He stepped out from behind the crates, a casual, almost bored expression on his face. "Alright, fellas, let's calm down. This isn't exactly the most effective business model. Extortion is so… last century. Literally."
The thugs turned, their eyes narrowing. The biggest one, a hulking brute with a scar running down his cheek, sneered. "And who might you be, pretty boy? Lost your way from the fancy part of town?"
Adam smirked. "Pretty boy? Oh, you wound me. I prefer 'cosmically re-gifted individual with a penchant for witty banter and a surprising ability to make things float.' But 'pretty boy' works in a pinch."
He gestured casually with his hand. A nearby stack of empty barrels, previously minding their own business, suddenly began to wobble, then topple, creating a loud clatter and blocking the thugs' escape route.
The thugs stared, momentarily stunned. The scarred brute recovered first. "You think that scares us, lad? We'll just go right through you!" He lunged forward, a crude knife glinting in his hand.
Adam didn't flinch. He just stood there, a mischievous glint in his eye. The thug swung the knife, aiming for his chest. Adam watched it come, almost in slow motion, a strange sense of detachment washing over him. The blade plunged into his sternum.
A gasp from the street. Rip and Sara, who had been watching the scene unfold with a mixture of disbelief and growing alarm, took a step forward.
The thug grinned, a cruel, triumphant expression on his face. "Not so tough now, are ya?"
Adam looked down at the knife sticking out of him, then back up at the thug. He raised an eyebrow. "You know, for a professional ruffian, your technique is a bit… blunt. And honestly, a little cliché. Didn't your mother teach you to aim for the vital organs? Or at least to use a sharper blade? This feels like I've been poked by a particularly aggressive butter knife."
Then, to the thug's horror, and Rip and Sara's utter astonishment, the wound began to close. The blood, which had welled up around the hilt, receded. The skin stitched itself together, the knife, now firmly embedded in solid flesh, began to be expelled. With a faint pop, it was pushed out, falling to the ground with a clatter. Adam reached down, picked it up, and casually tossed it aside.
"See? Not even a scratch," Adam said, flexing his chest. "Though I do feel a slight phantom itch. Probably just the cosmic dust settling."
The thug's jaw dropped. His eyes were wide with terror. He stumbled backward, bumping into his equally terrified companions. "Freak!" he shrieked, and then, as one, they turned and fled, tripping over the barrels in their haste.
Adam dusted off his hands, a satisfied smirk on his face. He turned to the old woman, who was staring at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude. "There you go, ma'am. Consider it a public service. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have an appointment with a very confused time traveler."
He turned, his eyes locking onto Rip Hunter and Sara Lance, who were still standing there, mouths slightly agape.
Rip was the first to recover, though his expression was still a masterpiece of bewildered exasperation. "You… you just… you let him stab you."
Adam shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's a living. Or, you know, a re-living. Long story. Involves a cosmic entity, a Ford Focus, and my questionable taste in reality TV. But hey, I healed, right? And I scared off the bad guys. Multi-tasking, it's my superpower. Well, one of them." He winked. "The others are still in beta testing, but I'm pretty sure one involves making people crave milk."
Sara, ever the pragmatist, narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?" Her hand instinctively went to her staff, though she didn't draw it.
Adam grinned, a genuine, unforced smile. "Adam Stiels. But you can call me 'The Anomaly.' Or 'Your future favorite chaotic variable.' Or 'The guy who's about to make your lives a whole lot more interesting, whether you like it or not.' And before you ask, yes, I know who you are. And yes, I'm a huge fan. Though, honestly, the show doesn't do justice to how perpetually stressed you look, Rip. You really need a vacation. Maybe a spa day. With scented candles."
Rip stared at him, then at Sara, then back at Adam, his face a complex tapestry of disbelief, annoyance, and a flicker of something that might have been reluctant intrigue. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gideon," he muttered, "remind me again why we're recruiting this one?"
["HIS TEMPORAL SIGNATURE IS UNIQUE, CAPTAIN. AND HIS POTENTIAL FOR DISRUPTING VANDAL SAVAGE'S PLANS IS… SIGNIFICANT. ALBEIT UNORTHODOX."]
Adam beamed. "See? Even the spaceship agrees. I'm unorthodox. It's my brand. So, are we doing this? Are we going to jump into a giant time-traveling spaceship and save history, one sarcastic remark at a time? Because I'm ready. I've been waiting for this my whole… well, my whole last life."
Rip let out a long, suffering sigh. "Get in the ship, Mr. Stiels. And try not to break history before we even leave the alley."
Adam clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Just one question: do you guys have a really good coffee machine on board? Because I've had a really long day. And by 'long day,' I mean I died, came back to life, got stabbed, and then had a rather enlightening conversation with a disembodied cosmic voice. So, coffee. Priorities, you know?"
Sara, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips, just shook her head. "You're going to be a handful, aren't you?"
Adam winked. "Oh, honey, you have no idea. This is just the warm-up act."
He followed them, a spring in his step, already planning his next move. The Waverider. His new home. His new, chaotic family. This was going to be epic. And probably involve a lot of explosions. And definitely some milk.